by Mary Roach
Ed stood at the rack of free informational handouts, carefully taking one of each. One had a crude trail map of this particular patch of the Sierras, leading him to believe we could make do without a real map. It was the sort of decision that causes friends and neighbors to shake their heads sadly: To think they lost their lives for six dollars.
Consulting our crude map, we chose a trail that appeared to be a reasonable day’s hike for middle-aged people bearing 25-pound packs. That is to say, a short one. In the end, the trail turned out to be five miles long with a 2,000-foot elevation gain.
At a waterfall we believed to be the halfway point, we stopped for lunch. It was well before noon, but when Ed is hungry, it is best to address the matter. He will chew through your pack to get food. Besides, we were beat. The rushing water was barely audible over the sound of our panting.
“Beautiful spot,” I wheezed.
“Yup,” said Ed, massaging his knee. “We should come here when we’re ten years younger.”
Because we had only cheese and crackers and peanut butter for lunch, it was over dismayingly soon. Backpacking is an excellent dieting activity, as the normal desire to overeat is outweighed by the desire to keep one’s pack light.
Back on the trail, we passed an old stone cabin. A plaque informed us that it had belonged to the actor Lon Chaney. Ed wondered aloud how Chaney had managed to haul the stones all this way into the woods.
“Maybe that’s how he became a hunchback,” I offered.
Ed ignored me. He took out the map. “If the cabin is here,” he said, “then we’re barely a third of the way.”
We were silent for a moment, contemplating the distance ahead. A man on a horse passed us. Behind him were two more horses, carrying the backpacks of a group of hikers who had sped past us some time ago. “Remind me,” I said. “Why is it that we didn’t do that?”
A few hours later, we rounded a bend, and there below us was the answer to my question: a glacial lake, aqua-hued and sprinkled with shimmering spots of sun. No one else was around. We set up the tent and played Scrabble. As the sky turned pink, Ed cooked up some dehydrated beans and instant rice, which we ate with cilantro and hot sauce from a teeny plastic bottle that would later leak all over the camp towel.
It’s possible the food would have tasted just as good if horses had carried our packs—but I doubt it.
About the Author
Mary Roach is the author of Gulp: Adventures on the Alimentary Canal. Her previous works include Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers; Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife; Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex; and Packing for Mars: The Curious Science of Life in the Void. Her essays have appeared in Vogue, GQ, National Geographic, and Wired.
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